Midnight's Master

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Having a breakdown in the middle of a live broadcast was really not a very good thing for a reporter’s career.

Holly Storm’s fingers tightened their already white-knuckled grip around the microphone. Her breath came too hard and way too fast as she fought to hold on to her control.

“Holly…” The reed-thin voice of her producer.

Shit. Her career was about to hit the toilet. She dragged her gaze away from the body-away from the body that she knew didn’t belong to a human-and glanced back toward the round lens of the camera. “Uh…I’m…H-Holly Storm, reporting to you live from the scene of-” A freaking slaughter. “A brutal…murder.” Yeah, brutal was a good word choice considering the way the poor guy had been sliced to ribbons.

Get a grip, girl. She couldn’t afford a meltdown right now.

After a hard swallow, she finally managed to suck in a full breath. Holly cleared her throat, then spoke in that calm, cool voice she’d perfected back in her college communication classes so long ago. “Police aren’t talking…” At least not to her. But then, the two detectives on the scene-Colin Gyth and Todd Brooks-weren’t exactly on her “friends” list. “But this reporter can’t help but wonder just what sort of monster is loose on our Atlanta streets.” There was a growl to her right. Her gaze darted over, just for a moment, and she met the bright stare of Detective Gyth.

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